


when we go crashing down, we come back every time

by starsandgutters



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: (kind of), (this one is DEFINITELY a trope tag), Adam is gonna KILL 'EM in college, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Ronan is the king of self-sabotage, Songfic, is that a tag? it should be tbh, teenagers with poor communication skills, which should also be a trope tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5715619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The official version was that Ronan Lynch did <i>not</i> go out of his way to avoid Adam Parrish when he came to visit; he just happened to be elsewhere, <i>doing things</i>, whenever Adam was in the general vicinity of Henrietta. The official version was that there was no bad blood, they just didn’t have <i>that much</i> in common, anyway. The official version was that Ronan couldn’t remember when, exactly, things had fallen apart between them, <i>mind your own business, Dick</i>.</p><p>The unofficial — and truer — version was that, despite what he told Gansey in increasing degrees of frustration and profanity, Ronan knew exactly when things had gone wrong. </p><p>It was their first kiss that had ruined them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when we go crashing down, we come back every time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pendules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/gifts).



> This fic came to be because [Shadae](http://knightsren.tumblr.com) suggested that ["Style"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CmadmM5cOk) by Taylor Swift would be a great fit for Adam/Ronan, and since I have a history of being Weak for songfic, I decided to try and loosely base a fic off [the lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/taylorswift/style.html). "It'll be fun," I said. "It'll be a short, sweet, sexy piece about boys kissing in cars," I said. Six thousand words and a lot of Ronan Lynch Angst later, I'm not so sure this fits the bill anymore. I hope you like it anyway, friend! :)
> 
> (ALSO THIS IS IN ACTUAL PAST TENSE, WHAT THE FRICKITY FRACK, I HAVEN'T USED THAT IN _AGES_. The Force is strong in this book series.)
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

The official version was that Ronan Lynch did _not_ go out of his way to avoid Adam Parrish when he came to visit; he just happened to be elsewhere, _doing things_ , whenever Adam was in the general vicinity of Henrietta. The official version was that there was no bad blood, they just didn’t have _that much_ in common, anyway. The official version was that Ronan couldn’t remember when, exactly, things had fallen apart between them, _mind your own business, Dick._

The unofficial — and truer — version was that, despite what he told Gansey in increasing degrees of frustration and profanity, Ronan knew exactly when things had gone wrong.

It was their first kiss that had ruined them.

He remembered all too well: the Barns, the summer afternoon, the shafts of sunlight making the air golden, and the cow opening his eyes. He remembered the surge of happiness that had gone through him, piercing enough to be almost painful, as he’d turned to Adam, grabbing his shoulder in his excitement, because he’d done it— _they_ ’d done it. He was going to wake up his father’s dreams, he was going to free his mother and Matthew for good.

He remembered Adam’s smile, radiant and electric, golden skin warm under his hand. Most of all, he remembered Adam leaning in, pressing soft, dry lips against his own, how his heart had stopped beating for a few endless seconds; he remembered finally coming to his senses and kissing him back — with eyes open, because that way he could be sure, could _know_ beyond doubt it wasn’t just another dream. It was nothing like he had imagined and everything he had wanted, and right then and there, for one blinding moment, he’d been certain everything was going to be all right.

That should have been his first clue that things were, in fact, going to be horribly wrong.

After that first kiss, they’d slumped back down in the hay, breathing hard. Ronan was about to reach out for Adam again, when Adam said it.

“I got in. Cornell, I mean— Columbia, too. Full rides.” The words rushed out of him like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve if he spoke more slowly, but it was impossible not to see the smile tugging at his lips, itching to burst out though he tried to bite it back.

“Oh,” Ronan said, unsurprised, because he had never doubted Adam’s chances of getting into any school he wanted. “Good for you.” He’d meant to sound sincere, too, but his skill set was honed for faking disinterest, not the opposite. Besides, it was impossible to sound enthusiastic when it felt like someone had just torn out the bottom of his stomach with a spoon.

Adam frowned a little at his words. “You knew this was happening. You always knew I’d leave for college.”

“Yeah. I knew,” Ronan said, rubbing clammy palms over his jeans. He had known.

“I was thinking,” Adam started saying, carefully, “that maybe if you decided you wanted to go on studying—“ Ronan interrupted him with a loud snort, making Adam eyeroll in exasperation. “Okay, _fine_. But if you wanted to visit, I mean, you’ve been to New York before. You could show me around?”

“I’m not your tour guide, Parrish,” Ronan replied hoarsely, through a throat that was suddenly refusing to work properly. He didn’t _want_ to show Adam around New York, easing him into the new life that was going to take him away from Ronan permanently. What he wanted was for Adam to _stay_ : to stay here where magic was real, where the trees whispered to them, where they were both strange and powerful and godlike; where Ronan didn’t have to feel out of place, half-dream and half-person in a world of too-real things.

But Adam would never be happy in Henrietta. The vast countryside that had brought Ronan magical trees and slumbering animals had only ever given Adam dust and pain and struggles. Ronan knew that deep in his bones, much as he wished he didn’t, and he knew he couldn’t stand in the way.

“You don’t have to be an asshole about this,” Adam said, annoyance flitting over his face like a storm cloud.

Ronan _did_ have to be an asshole about this, because he’d been so deliriously happy only a few moments ago, and now he felt like he was drowning, lungs constricting painfully; he _had_ to be angry, because he’d never learned how to deal with pain any other way.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” he gritted out. “You’re leaving. That’s that.”

“That’s not _that._ Just because we’ll be in different places— it doesn’t mean we can’t still see each other,” Adam replied fervently.

Ronan wished he believed him. He wished he could bring himself to leave the Barns behind and at least put Adam’s words to the test. Most of all, he wished Adam had never kissed him, because if _not having_ had been bad, _having_ only to lose it all a moment later was _unbearable._

“I’ll drive you home,” he said numbly. Then he got up and walked to the BMW.

To say the drive back was awkward would have been an understatement. Adam was all but vibrating in his struggle to hold back whatever he was trying to say; Ronan was preoccupied with the blood roaring in his ears, his stomach in knots. He willed his body to contain itself, because whatever was burning to come out of it — tears or vitriol or the swing of a fist into a wall — would have to wait until he was alone.

“At least let’s talk about it,” Adam said when they pulled over at St. Agnes, the words bursting out of him. It was clear he was trying for his reasonable, let’s-puzzle-this-out voice, but he was unable to keep a note of pleading out of it. It felt so out of place there, so at odds with his pride and relentless independence, that Ronan almost missed it.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he heard himself reply, looking down at the steering wheel without seeing it.

“If there’s nothing to talk about, then why the hell did you even kiss me?”

Even without looking at Adam, Ronan could tell this was it, the moment to make a choice. He could let this go, or he could choose to gamble on the impossible: a long-distance relationship before there even _was_ a relationship, driving upstate on long weekends, calling each other on the damn _phone._ Until Adam forgot to call, probably busy with classes; probably busy with something else. With _someone_ else who didn’t need to drive miles just to be in the same state as him. Ronan watched his knuckles tighten on the wheel, and swallowed past the thickness in his throat.

“I didn’t. _You_ kissed _me._ ”

There was silence for a moment, and then, low, to his right: “Fuck you.” Adam’s voice sounded strange, thicker than Ronan would have expected, but he didn’t turn to see if his eyes had the wet sheen to match it, because that would mean exposing the wetness in his own.

The passenger side door slamming closed sounded exactly like Ronan expected it to.

 

* * *

 

Adam had left in early August, two weeks after they’d kissed.

Gansey had tried to persuade Ronan to come out of his room at least long enough to say goodbye— loudly and pleadingly at first, then in a forcibly pleasant, measured tone, that Ronan took to mean Adam had arrived. Ronan had stayed in his room. Adam hadn’t knocked.

That night, Ronan had drunk himself to sleep for the first time in almost a year.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t talk, because that would have involved Ronan using his phone, and despite what Noah referred to as his “emo-punk pining”, Ronan still hadn’t sunk that low.

Whatever updates he got, he got through Gansey’s enthusiastic newsletters— because yes, Gansey did newsletters, rounding up all the information he had on their friend group and updating them all collectively, because Gansey _would._

And there was Facebook, of course. Ronan both loathed and appreciated Facebook, because it let him keep up with Adam and Gansey without actually having to _show_ that he missed them, but it also kept him up to date with some things he’d rather have never set eyes on.

Like _Casey_ , smiling with dimples in her ebony cheeks, Adam’s hand on her shoulder, both sporting costumes at some kind of Freshers’ week party.

( _Fucking lame_ , Ronan had said. _Is he being a ghost?,_ Noah had asked. _That’s kind of like a homage, I like it._ )

Like _Devon_ , who Ronan didn’t even have any proof was a thing, but there was something altogether too casual in the way his arm was draped around Adam’s shoulders as he took the selfie. Ronan was very familiar with _too casual._

( _He probably has a tiny dick_ , Noah said comfortingly before Ronan shoved him out the second-floor window.)

And the latest one, _Kate_ , long red hair and effortlessly charming freckles, wrapped in a big scarf and smiling with her hands around a coffee mug.

Adam had taken the picture himself, which for some reason was unaccountably worse.

“They’re going out,” Gansey told him over Skype.

“So? It’s not like he hasn’t dated before,” Ronan snarled. And then, remembering himself: “Also, why the fuck should I care?”

Gansey waved his objection off distractedly, like a harmless fly. “Yeah, but those were just, you know. Dates. Like, casual let’s-go-for-a-coffee dates. I don’t think anything ever came from it. But I don’t know, this seems like it could get more serious.”

Ronan didn’t say anything. Mostly, because the distinction was meaningless to him. You either dated seriously, or you didn’t date. That was it.

“Aren’t you gonna say anything?” Gansey had asked.

“The fuck should I say?”

“Adam says you haven’t called him once. Or replied to any of his texts.”

“Huh,” Ronan said, scratching his nose. “Didn’t know he’d got a cellphone.”

“Ronan Lynch,” Gansey said, reproachfully, “since when do you baldly lie?”

Ronan hung up.

So, Adam and Kate. Whatever.

 When he woke up the following morning, hungover and in a terrible mood, he was clutching a New York postcard, with his own furious scratch of a signature on it.

“You think maybe you’re trying to tell you something?” Noah had asked knowingly, studying the postcard from over Ronan’s shoulder.

“Maybe I’m trying to tell _you_ to fuck off,” Ronan groaned.

“It’s not _that_ long a drive,” Noah remarked, and then, with his face lighting up, added: “You could carry a boombox. Boomboxes are _great_ for winning people back.”

Ronan threw a pillow over his own face, and his middle finger in the general direction of Noah’s face.

“Rude,” Noah complained, before fading out of the room.

 

* * *

 

That had been three weeks before Thanksgiving, and two weeks before Gansey had announced they were reuniting for Thanksgiving. He said it like that: _reuniting_. Like they had been separated for years in a hostile forest.

Despite his ridiculous word choices, seeing Gansey again was always a little like coming home. Ronan’s heart gave a joyous tug at seeing the Pig approaching the parking lot of Monmouth Manufacturing, engine halfway between a roar and a death rattle, and another one when Gansey climbed out, looking as magnificent and winsome as ever.

“You know,” Gansey said after they’d hugged briefly, “I still can’t understand why you decided to stay here. All the good memories?”

“Well, hell, man,” Ronan replied, “I can’t exactly leave Noah on his own. Who’s gonna remind him when to not-eat and when to not do laundry?”

It wasn’t the whole truth, obviously, though Ronan really did care about Noah; there _were_ good memories too, of the four of them — later, five — searching for a sleeping King, reckless and hopeful and unafraid. And then there was the other truth, the one he was reluctant to speak: that he’d _tried_ to live at the Barns, when everyone had left — Adam for New York, Gansey for D. C., Blue for some alternative liberal arts college Ronan kept forgetting the name of — and he’d been fully intent on staying there.

And he’d realized, belatedly and horrifyingly, that he didn’t belong anymore.

It was still _home_ , of course, that hadn’t changed; but _he_ had. He was no longer the Ronan who had been grown from those fields, surrounded by dream animals and dream things; who was content, with the unerring devotion of children, to explore the enchanted land that was his father’s dominion, a small faerie prince himself. Now, he found himself itching for something to do. The farm ran itself, all economic matters having been neatly settled by Niall Lynch before dying. Irrigation and pesticides were never an issue, because the crops never suffered from anything, and it always rained exactly the right amount for everything to flourish. All the cows and hens were in perpetually perfect health.

Inside, there wasn’t much more to do than hole up in his childhood bedroom, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars tacked to the ceiling. Matthew came to visit, sometimes — which was always a welcome relief — and so did Declan — which was always a nuisance — but neither of them stayed long, Matthew still bound to Aglionby timetables, Declan busy with his D.C. internship. Outside of those occasions, Ronan was left with only Aurora’s unfailingly cheerful and sweet company. He still loved his mother with all of himself, relief and pride surging in his chest whenever he saw her flitting about the kitchen, baking trays upon trays of cookies, no longer trapped in sleep. But more and more frequently, it was hard to shake the feeling of detachment growing inside him. He’d tried to explain it to Gansey, but it was pointless: Gansey had been detached from his parents ever since he’d gone off exploring the world at fourteen. Ronan thought, sometimes, that they’d never been attached to each other in the first place, not in the way he understood the word— fierce devotion and proprietary love.

“I suppose it’s natural,” Gansey had said over Skype, putting a mint leaf in his mouth, “you’re technically an adult now, and you’ve been living on your own for a while. Maybe you outgrew living with your mother.”

Ronan supposed that could be it. Part of him, a part he tried to keep secret from himself, thought it had more to do with the way Aurora Lynch was — utterly and unmistakably — a dream-thing, no cloud ever crossing her sunny disposition, no life experience to impart that didn’t revolve around her departed husband. It had been easy to ignore before, when he was a child, or later, when she’d been yet another magical creature in a magical forest. Now, the realization was unescapable. Ronan might be part dream himself, but he was too thoroughly infected with reality to ever be able to forget the difference.

“So, we’re having Thanksgiving dinner at 300 Fox Way,” Gansey announced, startling him out of his thoughts. Then he added, warily: “Everyone’s gonna be there.”

By everyone, he obviously meant Adam.

“I don’t really feel like it. There’s going to be, like, 50 of Sargent’s relatives. Or even more, since it’s Thanksgiving, and 50 seems to be the average number of people living in that hellhole.”

“Ronan _Lynch._ ”

“What? You never _said_ we had to fake our way through a cheesy dinner.”

“No one’s gonna be _faking_ anything. I’ve missed you, you know. And Jane’s missed you too. And—“

“Don’t say it. Just don’t fucking say it.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” Gansey’s mouth was set in a stubborn line.

“If he really did, he would’ve—“ the rest of the sentence died on his tongue, unable to take a proper shape. Adam _had_ called, and texted. The fact that the texts were completely inane small talk — like ‘how are you’, and ‘it just snowed here! i hope you’re doing okay’ — and Ronan couldn’t bring himself to reply to them without choking on how much better, how much _more_ the two of them had been once, was technically his own problem. When the texts eventually stopped coming in, Ronan had felt grimly vindicated in his conviction that he’d been right all along: Adam had moved on.

“You can’t avoid him forever, Ronan.”

“Watch me.”

“ _Really_? Did you go back to fourteen while I was gone?”

“He’ll probably be on his way real quick anyway. Can’t keep the girlfriend waiting.”

Gansey sighed, rubbing his thumb over his lip, the gesture achingly familiar. “We don’t know that he has a girlfriend.”

“Oh, _please_. You were the one who said—“

“—that he _might._ But I don’t _know_. Perhaps we’ll find out tonight. By _talking_ to him.”

“Pass.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Gansey exploded. “The two of you have been friends for _ages_ , and now you can’t stand to be in the same room with him for an hour? Why can’t you just tell me what happened?”

Ronan felt his heart seize up painfully at the memory: golden sunlight on golden hay, golden skin under his fingertips, warm mouths moving together. It hurt as much to think about it as it had when it happened, but it would be even worse to explain to Gansey how horrible it felt to be a spectator to Adam’s apparently thriving dating life, while the memory of Ronan’s first and only kiss burned a hole in his chest almost every night. He’d always thought that kiss had ruined them, but perhaps it was only him that had been ruined.

“Nothing important, obviously.“ he answered, bitter. And then, because he’d never been able to refuse Gansey when it came down to it: “I’ll come to the fucking dinner if we leave right after.”

“I’ll take it,” Gansey said, tiredly, but he still smiled at him, still offered his fist for Ronan to bump; it felt familiar and comforting in a way either the Barns or Monmouth rarely did anymore.

“It won’t be that terrible,” Gansey promised, with the steadfast optimism that imbued most of his statements, “you’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

It was fucking terrible.

Well, if Ronan was being honest — which he usually was with everyone except himself — there had been good parts, too. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Blue until she ran outside to meet them, hugging Gansey and him in turn.

“Long time no see, Sargent,” he said, pleasantly. “Did you get shorter?”

“Dickbag,” she replied just as pleasantly, going up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Come on in, dinner’s almost ready.”

As it turned out, there weren’t 50 of Blue’s relatives, but the 16 that were present still managed to fill up the kitchen to bursting, and part of the living room too. Calla welcomed him with an amiable punch to the arm. “Snake,” she greeted, with a sharp smile, before her expression shifted as she retracted her hand. “Quit worrying so much about things,” she barked at him with what seemed like an undercurrent of genuine concern. “It’s a festive night. Celebrate, or whatever.”

Maura Sargent was in the process of taking an unreasonably huge turkey out of the oven. And to her right, bending slightly to retrieve a serving plate from a cabinet, was a figure Ronan would know anywhere, just by the slope of his shoulders, or the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck.

“What did you want me to put on this again, ma’am?” he asked Maura politely, Henrietta accent sanding off the edges of his words.

 _Oh,_ Ronan thought, dumbly, _he sounds the same._

And then, irritated at himself: _Of course he does, why would he sound any different? It’s only been four months._

It hit him that he’d been inexplicably certain New York would _change_ Adam, just by virtue of him existing somewhere that wasn’t the Henrietta countryside; that the person he’d meet at 300 Fox Way would have nothing in common with the quiet, clever, stubborn boy he’d fallen in love with almost despite himself.

But Adam looked exactly the same, from his dusty hair and finely-boned face to the freckles on his nose and his beautiful hands, sending a pang of _want_ through Ronan’s body, as strong as if he’d never left.

Adam turned around fully and spotted him, then, a complicated flurry of emotions passing over his face before he smiled at him, that smile of his that _seemed_ shy while the person wielding it was anything but.

“Lynch,” he said, warily. “Hi.”

Ronan was grateful for the use of his surname. If Adam had called him by name, he would probably have had to throw one of Maura’s vases against a wall.

“Parrish,” he nodded, drily. And then, because it was true, he added: “Looking good.” He imbued it with as much sarcasm as he could, hoping it would be construed as taunting.

“Thanks,” Adam smiled, easily. “So are you.” Then he turned back to help with the mashed potatoes, leaving Ronan as frustrated and baffled as ever.

It wasn’t until they were eating, and Ronan had the chance to study Adam unseen — as he listened intently to Blue tell him something or other about her Gender Studies class, gesticulating wildly — that he could see Adam _had_ , in fact, changed. Not in any radical way, but in many small ways, that only meant something bigger collectively.

For one thing, there were no shadows under his eyes, the perpetually bruised-looking skin there now a more natural, healthy color. For another thing, he’d put on weight; it was a subtle difference, his frame still slender and just this side of wiry, but the way his clothes fit him meant he was probably getting at least two decent meals a day, and regular exercise that _wasn’t_ him killing himself with shift after shift of heavy work. And so it went on: his shoulders were set a little straighter, not carrying the weight of the world anymore; his hair was a little longer, more evenly cut; the fine lines of his face were more relaxed, the perpetual frown line Ronan had once itched to smooth over gone from between his eyebrows.

Adam was still Adam, but — Ronan realized, all at once and with sudden clarity — this was an Adam who was _happy._ It tugged at Ronan’s heart in a complicated way, relief and pleased surprise warring with the bittersweet idea that Adam had blossomed into himself in another place, miles away, far from his past, far from Ronan. It wasn’t that Ronan resented him for it; he resented not being around to see it happen.

 _It’s probably for the best,_ he told himself, indulging in a moment of self-loathing, for old times’ sake. _You’d have fucked it all up._

It wasn’t long after that realization that he quietly excused himself to Maura as she was getting ready to serve dessert, and drove back to Monmouth. Gansey would understand, assuming he managed to tear his eyes away from Blue long enough to think about anything else.

Ronan could relate.

 

* * *

 

All Ronan could think when he opened the door sometime after midnight was: _everything’s backwards now._

It was backwards because it always used to be _him_ standing outside Adam’s apartment at St. Agnes, trying to get him to go along with whatever stunt he’d dreamed up— sometimes literally; him, gravitating around Adam like he was Ronan’s personal, unassuming sun; him, restless and wanting, without ever being able to voice what he was hungry for.

But the St. Agnes apartment had been empty for months, and Ronan occasionally even slept at night now, for lack of better things to do. And the most noticeable difference, of course, was this: Adam Parrish standing in Monmouth’s doorway, hands casually shoved in the pockets of his faded jeans, looking like a damn sepia photograph of James Dean in his white t-shirt and letterman jacket.

“You’re lucky Noah told me there was someone at the door,” Ronan said by way of greeting, pointing at the oversized headphones draped around his neck.

Adam pursed his lips. “Well, as long as it’s my lucky night, wanna go for a drive?”

A _drive._

It had all started with drives, for them, really: Ronan using any excuse he could come up with to pick him up, drive him anywhere — the Barns, Cabeswater, the state line — just so they could be alone, pretending they weren’t staring at each other when the other wasn’t looking.

And here they were— and here Adam was, asking him out for a drive so fucking casually, like Ronan’s heart wasn’t beating a war tattoo in his chest at seeing him show up in the middle of the night.

“A drive _where_?” he asked, as acidically as he could.

“I don’t know. Anywhere. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Couldn’t you ask Gansey?”

“Gansey stayed over at 300 Fox Way,” Adam said meaningfully. “Also, I didn’t _want_ to ask Gansey, I wanted to ask _you_. Are you coming or not?”

 _Just say no_ , a voice whispered inside Ronan’s head. _He’s out of your reach now, and better off for it. Don’t torture yourself._

Ronan was following him out the door before he’d even shrugged his leather jacket on properly.

 

* * *

 

They took the BMW, because Adam had categorically insisted he was driving, and Ronan had categorically insisted he wasn’t riding in Adam’s crappy Hondayota. They fought briefly about it, and it felt so much like old times — like nothing had changed — that Ronan had to clench his fists until his knuckles turned white, to avoid the itch to _touch._

Instead, he’d thrown Adam the keys to the BMW, because while Ronan didn’t trust himself around Adam, he trusted Adam with his life. That much hadn’t changed.

They drove for what felt like hours in perfect silence, speeding through the Virginia countryside, chilly november air coming in from Ronan’s rolled-down window.  The silence was familiar, almost comforting, but the few inches of space between them were an electric, living thing. Ronan’s mouth sought the leather straps on his wrist on instinct, until he reminded himself he didn’t do that anymore, and he wasn’t about to show Adam he was a nervous wreck. It was hard to ignore the tension, though, especially with the way Adam’s eyes kept darting in his direction and then away. Ronan wondered if the hunger he could see in them was real, or an effect of the dim lighting, painting Adam’s face wild and dangerous.

Eventually, Adam pulled over, smack in the middle of nowhere, fields to either side of them and only stars above. He shifted towards him in the driver’s seat, prompting Ronan to do the same. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something, but then he just reached his hand out and ran it through Ronan’s recently-grown-out curls, messy and windswept over his undercut.

“I like it,” he said, with a small smile. “I thought it’d be weird, when Gansey told me — you, with hair — but it suits you, somehow.” His smile softened. “Then again, most things do.”

There wasn’t much Ronan could say to that, not through the sudden tightness in his throat. He looked out into the field, gathering his resolve, then met Adam’s eyes head-on.

“I heard you’re seeing someone,” he said, flatly, because if he was reading this right — which his pounding heart told him he _was_ — then it needed to be said. “A girl. _”_

Adam raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look otherwise fazed. “Yeah, I was.”

“And?” Ronan asked, as casual as he could.

There was nothing casual in the look Adam levelled at him. “And now I’m not.”

Ronan hated himself for a short, intense second at the way his heartbeat picked up at the words. He focused that energy in making his eyebrows as much of an arch question mark as possible, hoping they demanded answers rather than begging for them.

Adam seemed to pick up on it, head canting to one side. “It didn’t work. We went on a few dates, but I couldn’t stop thinking about— well. You know.”

It was everything Ronan had wanted to hear. It was everything he _wanted._ Which meant, of course, his first instinct was to rail against it with all his might.

“Well, _you’re_ fucking entitled. What did you think, that you’d come back here and I’d just, what— be waiting with open arms?”

He had been, of course— he _was._ But Adam didn’t need to know that.

Adam frowned, but there was no heat behind it. He’d always been good at that, at letting Ronan’s provocations slide off of him unless _he_ was in the mood for a fight, too. “No, of course I didn’t.”

“Then that’s a hell of a gamble to make, Parrish. Better hope your girl’s willing to take you back.”

Adam stared at him like he was being deliberately dense, a familiar line of annoyance appearing on his brow. “I’m not gonna _ask_ her to take me back. I’m the one who broke up with her.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m gonna be your fucking rebound.”

 “So fucking what?” Adam retorted, low and fierce. “It doesn’t matter if you still want me or not. I was still thinking about it. About _you_. Which means seeing someone else wasn’t fair to anyone involved. What would even be the point?” he shrugged, like it was that simple. Like relationships were something you just got to make cool-headed decisions about. Ronan couldn’t imagine how that must feel. All he’d ever known how to do was the wanting-and-not-having part, because at least there was nothing to fuck up there.

But Adam, Adam was all about building ways to reach the things you want and think you can’t have; he always had been. And he was looking at Ronan like he used to, like _Ronan_ was one of the things he wanted. When he spoke next, his voice was softer, with a note of bittersweet longing in it that resonated deep in Ronan’s chest.

“What’s the point of me seeing anyone else, when you’re all I think about?”

Ronan’s heartbeat was like thunder in his ears, his hands restless and heavy in his lap.

“Yeah,” he said, thickly, “I’ve been there.”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Adam’s lips, but he didn’t say anything. After a moment, he reached out and took one of Ronan’s hands in his own.

 “Well, here we are,” he said quietly, “Or at least this is where I am right now, regardless of what you decide. What I want— what I’m offering. You can take it or leave it.”

“What if I leave it?” Ronan heard himself say, icy horror immediately creeping down his spine as he wondered why his brain was so hell bent on sabotaging him, what kind of masochistic joy it took in asking questions he didn’t want the answers to.

“I go back to New York, and we both pretend this conversation never happened for the sake of our weirdly co-dependent friend group, probably,” Adam suggested, wryly, not quite covering the flash of pain in his eyes.

Ronan’s mouth felt as dry as the desert sun. His skin ached everywhere he and Adam weren’t touching. “What if I take it?”

Adam’s smile was like the sun coming out after months of bleak, rigid winter. Ronan supposed it wasn’t far from the truth of things.

“In that case,” Adam said, “you should probably shut the hell up and let me kiss you already.”

Then he was learning forward, and this time, Ronan was ready, every part of him, every cell in him ready and willing and _wanting._ This time, he closed his eyes, his blood singing in his veins at the first touch of lips on lips, at the warmth of Adam’s clever, beautiful hands cupping his face.

 _Oh,_ he thought, deliriously, hands fumbling for purchase, at the back of Adam’s neck, twisting into his jacket, _this is different_. If their first kiss had been hesitant and fragile, this was anything but, Adam’s mouth moving over his confidently, eagerly, like he’d been thirsty for this for as long as Ronan had, and just as badly. Ronan opened his mouth to let his tongue in, grateful for the way it hushed the moan that had just, embarrassingly, come out of him.

He tried to tug Adam over into the vee of his open legs, but the shift stick was in the way. “Backseat?” he half-asked, half-gasped when they parted for breath, both of them panting. The flash of hunger in Adam’s eyes, meaning he was actually considering it, was a thrill in and of itself; the way he bit down on his already kiss-reddened lip was another.

“Maybe I should take you home,” he suggested.

“God, Parrish, I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

“Shut up,” Adam laughed, tugging him close to plant a kiss on his cheek, “you absolute fucking loser.”

“Takes one to know one,” Ronan replied, the arch tone he was going for somewhat impaired by the huge grin threatening to split his face in two.

“I guess it does,” Adam conceded, still smiling, and he started the car.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, trying to make your way to the upper floor of Monmouth Manufacturing, with the lights off and while kissing heatedly, was a near-deadly obstacle course. They managed to trip up the stairs, ram into the pool table, and knock to the ground one of Gansey’s old mint plants, now mostly dead, before Adam’s hand finally closed around the handle of Ronan’s bedroom door, and they half-fell, half-stumbled in, Ronan’s hands still shoved deep in his back pockets.

“Do you think Noah’s around? Can you tell?” Adam asked urgently against Ronan’s mouth. Ronan groaned.

“Please tell me you’re not thinking about _Noah_ right now.”

“Don’t be an idiot, I just don’t necessarily want him _watching_.”

“Well, I’m sorry I forgot to put a sock on the door handle for my ghost roommate, or whatever you cool college kids do!”

It was Adam’s turn to groan. “Nevermind. Noah, if you’re out there, I missed you and I’ll talk to you later—“

“ _Much_ later,” Ronan clarified, before kissing Adam silent and dragging him towards the bed. Adam came willingly enough, however, pinning Ronan to the mattress almost as soon as they’d toppled down on it, solid and warm, kissing him like their lives depended on it. As far as Ronan was concerned, it was a very real possibility. He wasn’t sure much else existed anymore outside of Adam’s weight on top of him, Adam’s lips hot against his skin, Adam’s taste on his tongue.

“Wait, wait—“ Ronan asked, breathless, in the middle of running his hands under Adam’s shirt while Adam kissed his neck, “when are you leaving?”

He could tell it was a difficult question from the way Adam tensed against him before he emerged from the crook of Ronan’s neck, disheveled and flushed and gorgeous.

“Day after tomorrow,” he said, wincing apologetically when he saw Ronan’s smile fall. “I have an essay due by the end of the week. I was thinking of taking tomorrow to go do some Cabeswater stuff, make sure the ley line is tended to. Do you wanna come with?”

“Yes,” Ronan replied immediately. Then he paused, trying to gather his thoughts, to decide if it was the right thing to say. He came up empty, and decided that _fuck it_ , he was going to say it anyway, because he _wanted_ to.

“I was thinking,” he started, carefully, “that it’s gonna be Christmas soon, and, well. Since you’ve never seen New York during the holidays, I could. I could come up and show you some of the cooler things to do. Since, you know, you wouldn’t know cool if it kicked you in the ass,” he added for the sake of appearances.

Adam grinned wide, ignoring the dig completely. “Yeah? Are you gonna be my tour guide after all?”

“Fuck no,” he replied vehemently, “I’m gonna be your fucking boyfriend.”

As soon as he’d said it he could feel his hackles rising defensively— _too much too soon_ — but Adam just smiled, soft and bright.

“I like the sound of that.”

“So,” Ronan exhaled, letting all the tension leave him in that breath, a new, wonderfully light feeling swelling in its place, “we’re actually doing this?”

“Looks like we are,” Adam replied, his voice full of mirth. “I can’t _believe_ you didn’t fucking talk to me for four months. Asshole.”

“You asked me about the _weather_ ,” Ronan countered, long-suffering.

Adam cringed, acknowledging the unsmoothness of it. “I didn’t know _what_ to talk about,” he huffed, “and I missed you, okay?”

Ronan didn’t have to say he’d missed him too. It was obvious in the way his hands skimmed down Adam’s back reverently, tracing each bump in his spine; in the way he couldn’t seem to get _close_ enough, his thighs bracketing Adam’s legs tightly, lips brushing his every few moments.

More importantly, now he didn’t have to miss him anymore, because Adam was here and he was _real,_ the realest thing Ronan had ever set eyes upon, and Ronan was never going to let him go again.

“You’ll visit, right? Not just for Christmas. And you’ll pick up your damn phone, too?”

“Now let’s not get crazy, Parrish, you know how I feel about phones.”

“ _Adam,_ ” Adam corrected him, “and you’d better learn to like them.” It sounded like _please don’t make me go without you again,_ and honestly, that was the last thing Ronan planned on doing.

He knew now, he _knew_ — all the time he’d spent torn between the Barns, Monmouth, and the back streets of Henrietta, wondering what he was supposed to do with himself. And the truth was there had never been any other option, not with the fact of Adam somewhere in New York like a homing beacon, calling to him, pulling him in, showing him where he needed to be— where he _wanted_ to be.

“I’ll visit,” he promised, knowing that one day, probably sometime soon, one of those visits would turn permanent, the idea unleashing butterflies in his stomach.

“What about the phone?” Adam prodded, grinning, poking him in the ribs.

“Shut up about the fucking phone, _Adam_ ,” Ronan said, pulling him down for a kiss. And it sounded like _yes_ , it sounded like _anything you want_ , but most of all, it sounded like _I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr at [starsandgvtters](http://starsandgutters.co.vu)!


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